


Open road

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Denial, Hurt/Comfort, Leather, Leather Trousers, M/M, Motorbike!Sex, Second Time, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:32:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean lets his doubt and denial get the better of him, can he earn Sam's forgiveness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open road

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this pic...my god doesn't that just do things that should be illiegal in all fifty states...  This isn't a Softail it's a Triumph, but I've got a soft spot for Harley's.
> 
> Big squishy thanks go to wings128 for all her understanding and reading and tweaking for this one :D
> 
> Edit: The picture of Jared is a manip, but it's a very good quality one, so I'm leaving it here because it still inspired this story, lol.

Sam's not sure if he's going to pass out, punch Dean in the nose or throw up. Any and all are possible at this point and he's having issues seeing straight, what with the unwanted tears beading along his lower lids.

Swiping a hand across his eyes, Sam brings his face down level with Dean's sorrow filled gaze and tries to steady his voice, "You promised me you wouldn't do this De..."

Dean hears the hurt and frustration in Sam's voice but doesn't open his arms like he usually would. He can't, not after...not now.

It's an instinct as natural as breathing, as easy as walking and talking and flirting. It physically hurts Dean to restrain himself, to not reach out and pull Sammy against his chest, not to offer comfort and whispered words of hope, but he has to draw a line. 

Taking Sam in his arms would only blur that line beyond recognition and he needs to stay strong, stay focused, "It's wrong Sammy, we're wrong. Dad wanted me to..."

"Don't!"

It's not the visceral spitting hatred in his baby boy's voice that kills the words, nor is it the violent punch Sam lands just above his head, hard enough to crack the badly rendered drywall and send plaster flakes skittering into Dean's hair.

It's the image of their father; disapproving and disgusted glare on his face, eyes glinting with anger and malice, that curdle the words in Dean's throat.

There are tears now, real honest to goodness sucker punching tears, streaming down Sam's cheeks, making him wish the ground would open up and swallow him.

Anger and loss, fear and pain. Sam can't hold them back any longer and he leans his forehead against Dean's just so his brother won't be able to focus on the hurt flashing in his eyes, "Please..."

The force with which he buried his hand in cheap plaster has broken the skin across his knuckles and Sam tries as best he can to concentrate on the pain instead of the black gnawing emptiness opening up in his stomach, "You promised."

Right hand still embedded in the wall, Sam reaches out with his left, clumsily cups Dean's cheek, ignores the flinch in his brother's skin, the twitch of his jaw, and runs the pad of his thumb flat against Dean's full kissable bottom lip, "We went through this. I just spent three weeks begging and pleading and talking until my throat felt like I'd gargled glass. You said we'd _try_. I was the one who asked De...and I told you not to do this, not to agree, not to give me what I want, dangle it in front of my face then yank it away."

The gravitational pull of Sam's bottomless jade eyes is a force to be reckoned with most days, let alone when they're inches away and pleading silently and Dean finds himself leaning into his brother's hand, rubbing his stubbly cheek against Sam's callused palm, "I can't, Sammy, I can't! I won't be the one to...to take your innocence."

Sam scoffs in his brother's face, harsh bitter laughter forcing it's way up his throat before he knows it's even there, "Innocence, _innocence_. Dean I'm a hunter in my late twenties with more kills under my belt than most caged serial killers. More screw ups in the minus column than all the dead presidents combined. I'm not some dainty virgin you de-flowered. I am _fully_ aware of what I'm asking, I was then, I am now. You can't tell me you didn't enjoy it, hadn't been craving it just as much as me."

Dean screws his eyes shut against the accusation in Sam's voice, "Don't, Sammy don't"

Sam grinds himself into Dean, slots a knee between his thighs and lets his half hard cock scrape against his brother's belly, "I could feel your heart beat at the back of my throat De...The sweat from your skin mixing with my own. I heard you, when you spilled yourself inside me, the heat in your voice. Don't tell me you didn't want me, didn't _need_ **more**."

Dean curses his body's reaction to Sam's whispered words and turns his head away, tries to block out the memory of Sam sprawled beneath him, the feel of muscle shifting and rolling beneath his hands, the way Sammy practically howled his name as he came. The innate sense of 'home' in his brother's arms, "Don't, Sammy don't do that. It doesn't matter what I _want_ , what I **felt**. I'm meant to protect you, not fuck you into a mattress 'til we both can't walk straight. I'm _your_ **brother**!"

Sam can see the instant he's lost the battle, the very second Dean shuts down, shuts it all down.

Shoving away from the wall, ignoring the blood trickling across his wrist and down his arm from his split knuckles, he puts as much distance between himself and the heat emanating from Dean's body as he can; Dean's scarred, honed, taut, beautiful body.

Fisting his hands in his hair and yanking, Sam shouts, loud enough to pop Dean's eardrums, "Fine. Fine! You want to play martyr, you want to play Daddy's good little boy. You want to throw this away, then I can't stop you, I can't make you _see_. If I can't get through then I can't be here to watch you close down Dean. Not after...I just can't."

Dean's feet move of their own accord, responding to the lack of fight in Sam's voice, and he takes an involuntary step towards his brother, arm outstretched, reaching for his shoulder.

Sam spins and fixes Dean with an anguished defeated look before blindly grabbing at his duffel and shoving clothes and random belongings in until the seams are practically bursting, "That's it, I'm gone. You opened a flood gate Dean. I can't hide it anymore and I'm damn well not gonna go back to pretending you aren't the first thought in my head when I wake and the last before I sleep."

Tear tracks still visible against reddening cheeks, Sam hunches his shoulders and sucks in a laboured breath, "You want to just pass this up, give away a chance at real happiness, no matter how fucked up it might be, then you go ahead, but I'm not hanging around long enough for your denial to destroy us both."

"Sammy...don't..." The panic that sets in as he watches Sam shove random piece of crap after random piece of crap in his bag is blinding, deafening, all consuming.

The pain in Dean's voice is nearly enough to drop Sam on the spot but he's got to stay strong and walk out that door. If he doesn't, if he stays, they'll just destroy each other. If he lets his innate need to hold his brother close and wash away his fears get in the way of his self preservation instincts then they will claw and rip at each other until there is no relationship, brotherly or otherwise, left to salvage.

Sammy moves so quick Dean doesn't have a chance of catching him before the door slams shut and he's left in a dank cold airless room, replaying the pain on Sam's face over and over until his own eyes sting with salty unshed tears, "I'm sorry...don't go."

He hears gravel scrape and scatter as Sam runs away from the room, away from him, and every fibre of his being cries out to chase, to bring his little brother back. To kiss or kick or kill. To do _something_.

Instead he stands stock still, hand still hanging in mid-air, heart hammering so hard in his chest he thinks it'll crack a rib, "Sammy..."

~^~

Sam's been gone a week.

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty eight hours.

There hasn't been a single minute of any one of those hours that he hasn't thought about ringing Dean, checking he isn't languishing in a drunken stupor on the floor of some skeevy bathroom stall. 

He's had the phone in his hand, thumb hovering over the 'call' button, so many times, but he hasn't been able to make that final push. He's already bared his soul, he's already given so much that he feels like his chest's been hollowed out. He can't hear Dean's voice, it will just drag him back down, shatter every defense he's built in the last few days.

Why can't Dean see? Why can't he taste it the way Sam can. It's right there, in front of their faces. Whatever it is it's real and Dean's just throwing it away, discarding it like fast food wrappers or random girl's numbers.

This thing isn't right, it is in _no way_ right, in fact it's a couple of county lines over from **right** , but they've spent their whole lives working off of 'not right' and why shouldn't they get something, just this one tiny thing, to cling to?

Sam shakes himself from his macabre and frustrating thoughts, goes back to clearing glasses and plates.

He's fallen on old and familiar habits. Go with what you know, right?

The bar's nothing special. Just a bunch of no-neck hunters and bikers. Not _hunters_ but handy enough with a shotgun and a boot knife. A pretty, if somewhat care worn landlady and a few regulars that don't seem to mind the new guy behind the bar.

Josey, the woman in charge, she'd taken one look at Sam shuffling his feet and stuttering through a request for work and thrown a cleaning cloth and apron at him, "Don't skim off the top and we'll get along fine."

He hasn't really slept since he walked out on Dean. Sam's never been able to settle unless his big brother was in the bed next door. Years of sleezy motels and not knowing where Dad was have ingrained a need for closeness that has Sam tossing and turning at night, replaying their last fight over and over.

Stanford was a nightmare for the first year. Not having a warm body close enough to reach out and touch when the nightmares hit. Jess helped some once they started staying at each other's places, but it was never the same.

It's the not knowing, the never knowing if his dumb-fuck, stubborn, pigheaded brother is drinking himself into an early grave or throwing himself in harm's way on purpose. Without Sam there to haul his butt out the fire, is he getting himself gutted by some unknown foe?

As he tries to avoid stale beer stains and left over food of questionable origins, Sam thinks about whether Dean's doing his usual and scouring his contacts trying to dig out his little brother. He's probably going bat-shit crazy trying to find out where he is, but Sam can't bring himself to care, because caring means feeling and feeling means letting the hurt and betrayal in.

Dean's need to protect is so deeply ingrained that he's probably torn up half of America trying to get a lead on his baby brother's where about's. 

Sam doesn't know what Dean's gonna do once he finds him, but he knows Dean _will_ find him.

Sam's head comes up as he hears the roadhouse's door swing open and laughs at himself when he feels a tiny spark of hope that it might be Dean standing in the doorway.

Offering up a wan smile, Sam nods at the burly biker sauntering towards him, "Hey Badger. Long night?"

The slightly overweight, greying at the temples, classic cliche of a Harley Davidson biker rat gives Sam a weary smile and slides onto his normal barstool, "You have no idea. Gimme my usual would you."

Sam slips behind the counter, pops the top on a Bud and pours it into a half glass of cider before sliding it across to the tired looking man sagging against the bar, "You know that stuff will rot your insides, right?"

Badger grunts and tips the frothy mixture to his lips, takes a long pull and rolls his eyes at Sam, "Dude, if I wanted health tips and nagging at I'd go home to the wife. Pretty as she is, she only gets away with it 'cause she makes a mean pot roast. So I ain't gonna put up with you chewing my ear off."

Sam grins at Badger's 'grumpy face' and pours himself a shot of whiskey, "Got anything good on the hook for later"

As rough and ready as the old coot is, as much as Sam would rather stand in the middle of a hornet's nest naked as a babe than poke the bear sat opposite him, he's kind of gotten used to his company. He's here every night at the same time and has taken to the new face quite well. 

Sam's thankful for that at least because bikers don't tend to play well with outsiders. Badger's patronage has smoothed his way and gotten him more tips than he would of done otherwise.

Maybe Dean was right, perhaps Sam's puppy-dog dewy eyed school boy routine isn't a bad skill. It's helped him get away with a hell of a lot more than most in a bar full of mistrusting baseball bat wielding bikers.

Badger lifts a greying eyebrow into his hairline and grins, "Yeah, sweet pot too. One of the young'ens has gotten himself in a little too deep with his booky, he's sticking the ticket to his ride in as collateral. Cherry piece of machinery. 94' Harley Softail. Been modded with a set of chopper bars. Would just about fit your lanky assed frame. Want in?"

Sam thinks back to his college days, remembers all those cruisers he'd see sailing passed him on sunny days in Palo Alto and how he'd thought they were for retirees. If he'd had the guts he'd have gone out and gotten himself a fully modded chop. It would've been the only bit of kit that he could've straddled without his armpits being full of his knees.

Grinning at the memory of sketching himself sat astride a shining black beast covered in chrome and custom paintwork, Sam nods and knocks back his shot, "Yeah, why not. I haven't had a good game of poker for a while. Teach you oldies a thing or two."

Badger motions for a refill and laughs, "Watch your mouth boy, just 'cause you're a head taller don't mean I can't still rip a strip out your ass."

Sam imagines the look on Dean's face if he ever saw him on a full and throaty Softail and pours himself another drink, "We'll see."

~^~

It's been a full week since Dean let Sam walk out that motel door and he hasn't stopped kicking himself.

Idiot.

Seven days of sleepless nights and regretting every dumb-assed thing that came out of his mouth. 

Damn idiot.

He's finally found Sam. Tracked him to some back ass bar in the middle of Arizona.

Quiet yet frantic enquiries with every contact in his book, he's called in every marker he's got and some he's going to have to honour but he's managed to get himself a solid lead.

He's not sure when he realised what a prize dick he was being but in between tossing and turning and listening for breathing that's never there Dean's figured out that what Sam's offering is better than anything he's been given so far in their fucked up lives and he's going to have to work hard to get it back.

The heat in Sam's gaze as he laid his forehead on Dean's is burned into his retinas. Every time he shuts his eyes he can see the longing, the need, in his baby boy's eyes and it's been slowly killing him by degrees.

Damn fucking idiot.

Dean's been running on fumes for years, locking the little looks and gentle touches away at the back of his mind, never calling out what was always there.

He's ignored hundreds of frustrated hand jobs in motel bathrooms, straining to hear Sam's breathing just behind the door as he imagines long fingers pressing against his tight muscles, spilling himself against non-descript mildew covered tiles, his little brother's name so close on his lips but never brave enough to cry out properly.

No more.

Sam's a special kind of crazy.

He'd gotten a look on his face that said Dean was a puzzle to be solved before tilting his head and blurting out his inner most feelings in the middle of some shitty no name diner in the back end of the mid-west.

_"De...I can't do this anymore. Sick of pretending. I want you. Like, yesterday."_

Dean had seen Sam's 'inner battle' face and known something pivotal was going to come out of his mouth but he had no idea he was going to say _that_.

Later, after the sweaty breathless part, after Dean had nearly lost his shit completely, Sam had said he'd wished for a camera in that diner, because his face, _his face_.

Dean remembers what it felt like so it must have been even more comical to look at.

Before they got to 'sweaty and breathless' it had taken Sammy another full week of shameless flirting, of teasing to the point that Dean couldn't stand up without pressing his jacket closed, until he'd finally caved and pounced.

Years of repressed sexual tension and the scent of sin, always so appealing, had washed over Dean and he couldn't close his eyes to it anymore.

Mind blowing would never quite cover what happened once he finally pulled his head out of his ass.

They'd hashed it out after, had promised they'd try, that they'd work round it, kick it in the ass, like everything else.

But Dean's self loathing and doubt had gotten the better of him and he couldn't stop himself telling Sam no, that it was over, that they couldn't do this.

Sam had been gone a sum total of a day before Dean had realised what a prick he was being, how much he was throwing away.

Damn stupid fucking idiot.

Sam had bared his soul had given of himself and Dean had run rough shod over the top of everything he was offering. No wonder the anguish in his little brother's eyes is still haunting him.

Pulling up outside yet another flea-bitten motel, Dean wonders how he's going to breach Sam's defences.

It's going to be a bitch of a fight, but he's got to try.

~^~

"Man, you're rinsing me for everything I've got!"

Sam tilts his head, ignores the snort of laughter from Badger's side of the table and shoots for apologetic, "Sorry dude, them's the breaks. Hey you can always dip out. Take back the bet, we'll call it quits"

Sam knows there's no way Silver's going to want to lose face like that in front of his club buddies, so he knows he's on for a good hand and he's inches away from walking away with his very own Harley Davidson.

Silver shakes his head, eyes the other leather clad men sitting quietly round the table and decides a broken leg off his booky is better than admitting defeat in front of this lot, "No, no you're alright, I can deal. Come on anti-up."

Sam throws the rest of his chips in and the gold watch he won three days ago off a cocky looking ride through before laying his cards face up for Silver to see, "Four of a kind, ladies beat Jacks."

"Fuck!"

Sam bites his lip, hides his satisfied smile before he ends up with a broken nose, "Seriously man, I'm sorry. It hurts me to have to do it but..."

Reaching across the table, Sam gathers poker chips and notes of various denominations along with his watch and the pink slip to Silver's bike, "She's going to a good home, I'll treat her right."

Silver mentally does the math on being able to get out of dodge before his bookmaker's goons come looking and nods at Sam, "You best do or I'll take it out of your ass."

~^~

Dean's leaning as nonchalantly as his thudding heart will allow, against the railings of a building opposite the roadhouse that Sam's meant to be working in. His source tells him Sammy's got a shift this evening, so he'll at least be able to scope out whether or not his little brother really is in town without drawing too much attention to himself.

Typical Sam. Go back to bussing tables or pouring drinks. He always was a people watcher.

He's in the process of trying to figure out how to approach his younger brother without getting a split lip when he hears the throaty purr of yet another motorcycle pulling onto the main drag in front of the bar.

Without bothering to take much notice, Dean tips his head in the direction of the low rumble and feels the air being sucked from his lungs.

Sitting astride the most beautiful piece of machinery on two wheels Dean's ever seen, is Sam, clad head to toe in leather. Long legs fitting perfectly around the thrumming bike's tank, looking for all the world like he _really_ belongs there.

The blood drains from Dean's face to parts slightly lower as Sam kills the engine and rests her on her kickstand.

Huh, that's new. 

Dean doesn't tend to personify other automotive bits of kit. Baby's his girl and she's always been a she, since long before Dad handed the keys over. But other people's rides are nothing to do with him and they're just _its_.

Her however, resting between Sam's strong muscley thighs, rumbling low and threatening, she's most definitely a _She_.

Dean watches Sam pull his hair out of the band keeping it off his face and finds himself panting slightly. The image of his baby boy, covered in skin tight leather, slight sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, hair being shaken loose and smiling wide enough to see his molars, sets his skin alight, forces his pulse rate somewhere up in the region of heart attack territory.

Jeans uncomfortably tight, Dean has to readjust himself without the line of bikers all leaning against the front porch of the pub noticing. Last thing he needs is a beating for being a freaky peeping tom.

Watching Sam run the flat of his hand along the tank nestled between his thighs, reverence and lust in his eyes, has Dean sweating, salty beads gathering at the nape of his neck and in the hollow of his throat.

Is that what he looks like when he's talking to Baby? Does he get that glazed slightly hazy look on his face?

No wonder Sam's always asking if they need alone time.

He thinks if Sam raised his head right now, if he levelled _that_ look on Dean, he'd have real issues not coming in his pants.

Sam slides from the bike, lips moving in what Dean thinks are whispered words of love and devotion, of adoration for such a beautiful thing.

The slight curve of Sam's lips, the sparkle in his eyes, the bulge in his brother's leather trousers, all of it screams 'fuck me' at Dean. His heart beats a tattoo of it into his skin. 

The older Winchester is fully aware he's witnessing the beginning of a love affair that outstrips any he's seen before, the tentative way in which Sam checks her over, fingertips sliding along sleek lines, checking she's in full working order before removing the keys and pocketing them. 

The look on his little brother's face is the same one he wore as he arched into Dean that night, the night that changed everything, and Dean once again kicks himself for throwing that kind of devotion away, for letting it slip through his fingers like it was worth nothing.

"Idiot."

As Sam disappears inside the bar, one last longing gaze landing on his new bike, Dean has to hold onto the railings behind to stop from following. 

He can't approach his brother in a roadhouse full of rednecks, not if he hopes to get through Sam's walls, especially not with a blatant and raging hard on, not if he wants to make it out of there in one piece.

As the door swings shut, blocks Sam from his view, Dean's mind forms fuzzy ideas and half plans. He'll just have to be patient. He's waited a week, he can wait another few hours.

~^~

Sam's reluctant to leave her outside but knows the men lounging around the front of the bar will keep an eye. It's a code that's existed since before he was born; you can mess with a man but not with his ride.

Even as his heart sings at the thought of his new Baby, a pang of regret sneaks in, sours the taste of triumph and satisfaction. 

Dean would absolutely fucking love her; he'd appreciate the high shine of her chrome, buffed to perfection. The amazing craftsmanship of her intricately rendered rims, the length of the swing arm, seemingly made to fit Sam's long legs and broad frame.

Not for the first time since he's had her, Sam thinks about bending Dean over the tank, about pressing him hard into cool metal and watching his skin pucker and redden from the chill.

Shaking himself, slipping behind the bar, he spots Badger sat in his usual space and grabs a bottle of Bud from the fridge.

The older man watches Sam saunter along the bar and smiles, "So, how's the new toy?"

Sam's face screws up in disgust, "She's not a toy Badger, she's...she's a thing of...she's not a toy."

Badger laughs loudly and grabs for the open bottle in Sam's hands, "Okay, okay, it's just I'm so used to guys your age getting themselves a bike, thinking they 'own the open road' and three weeks later they're languishing in Daddy's garage. My mistake, you're obviously a connoisseur."

Sam nods and starts cleaning down the bar, mind wandering yet again to the image of Dean; legs spread, peachy ass in the air, begging to be taken.

He's on the verge of complaining about the accumulative heat of a bunch of sweaty bikers all laughing and joking when he remembers he's still in full leathers, "Keep an eye a minute, can't work in these things. I'm gonna end up a messy puddle on the floor."

Badger raises his glass, tips it at Sam and winks, "Not all fun and games owning a bike is it Sammy?"

Sam's breath hitches at the name but he doesn't say anything, just heads out back to change into jeans and a button down before he melts into the beer soaked floor.

As the door to the bathroom swings shut, Sam's still imagining Dean's face as he sinks into him, the sounds he'd make as her petrol cap dug into his ribs whilst the taller man slammed his thighs against his ass cheeks. 

Sam peels tight leather away from his legs and hisses as the cool air ghosts across his achingly hard cock. There's already a fine layer of pre-come coating his head and he can't help brushing a thumb across his slit, thinking about Dean's shoulders tensing in front of him, his hips rolling and pushing backwards.

Flicking the lock on the door, Sam strips out his trousers and jacket, leans up against the wall, braces his feet flat against the floor and wraps one large hand round his twitching cock.

Strokes quick and rough, Sam twists his wrist and pictures his brother's tight muscles squeezing him, thinks about how well Dean's ass would fit against the curve of his thighs.

His breath quickens as his toes curl and he has to bite down hard on his bottom lip to stop from crying out as he comes embarrassingly quickly. Reaching out blindly for the basin so he doesn't slide to the floor, Sam's hips jerk and he rides out the orgasm before slamming his head into the wall behind him.

"Fuck!"

Cleaning up and redressing, Sam takes one more cursory look to check he hasn't left any evidence of his moment of weakness before stepping back into the bar.

The twinkle in Badger's eyes tells Sam the older man knows exactly what the young bartender was doing in that bathroom. Ignoring the rising flush in his cheeks, Sam methodically scrubs the bar until he feels Badger's gaze drift elsewhere.

~^~

If Dean thought he was a hardened alcohol swilling bar fly, he's got nothing on the men and women who've been filtering in and out of the pub all night. 

It's been six hours since Sam disappeared inside the roadhouse and Dean's on the verge of striding in there and taking his little brother over the bar, bikers with sorn-off's be damned.

He's managed to find a decent spot to wait them out. He had to hang tight until the last one was gone but didn't want to risk being spotted loitering and get dragged inside the bar, last thing he needed was Sammy seeing him getting his ass kicked.

At fucking last.

The outside lights finally sputter out and he can hear the stragglers shouting goodbyes.

Dean straightens out of his enforced crouch and rolls his shoulders, listens to the pop and crack of overly tensed muscles.

Making sure the parking lot's empty, Dean walks quickly over to the only bike still resting on it's kickstand.

Dean's struck by just how impressive Sam's new love is. Usually that amount of chrome would put him off but it's tampered by the satin black sheen and lengthened frame. 

Is that a custom set of bars? And a longer swing arm...No wonder Sammy's got a hard on for her.

Up close she's even more beautiful. There's custom paintwork lining her tank, purple and red flames licking along her curves, curling up underneath the seat, snaking down the left mudguard and ending on her tailpipe. 

Truly gorgeous.

At least if his little brother's going to become a road rat he's got himself a decent ride and good taste.

Dean hears Sam shuffling about inside the bar and his heart rate amps up. 

What if he doesn't want to hear it, what if he tells Dean to go get bent?

No. Dean can't let him. He has to make him see that he knows what a dick he was being, make him understand that he's willing to go all in.

Leaning against the bike as nonchalantly as he can, careful not to tip her over and bring down violent retribution for scraping her paintwork, Dean crosses his arms and waits.

His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, he can't really hear passed the buzz of his own blood rushing along his veins and he's sweating so badly that his shirt is sticking to his back.

When did he turn into a nervous first date?

If Sam won't listen then Dean doesn't know what else he can do, but he's counting on his brother's natural need to 'talk things out' kicking in. Forgetting the fact he just spent almost a month talking shit through, Dean prays that Sam's still not _that_ pissed at him, disappearing act aside.

Dean hears the door to the roadhouse creak open and swallows hard and braces for impact.

Sam turns away from the bar and sees someone leaning up against his bike.

He's about to threaten death or dismemberment when he recognises the worn leather jacket, collar turned up, cuffs slightly ragged, "Dean?"

Dean offers Sam a smirk and nods towards the bike, "Nice ride."

Sam's anger flares. White hot rage at Dean's attempt at casual hazes the edge of his vision and he flings himself at his brother, "Nice ride... _Nice ride_. That's it, that's all you got?"

Fists buried in Dean's shirt, Sam yanks him away from the bike before he punches him and topples them both.

Dean's hands come up to grip Sam's fists and he drops the patented Dean Winchester grin, "Sammy please."

Sam shakes Dean so hard he thinks he hears teeth rattle, "Please _what_! Please don't beat the living crap out of you, please don't hate you for breaking me, making me run again when I promised I wouldn't ever walk away. Please **what** Dean!"

Dean's heart is beating so fast he's amazed he hasn't flaked out. He'd hoped for, god he doesn't know, Sam to open his arms and say all is forgiven?

No, he's not that stupid. He knows how much he hurt his brother, but he'd thought Sam would be able to channel his anger, it's usually one of his more frustrating traits as far as Dean's concerned but he'd figured on it stopping Sam laying into him, at least long enough for him to explain, "Sam, wait, I'm so..."

The punch Sam lands cracks Dean's jaw, makes his teeth clamp down on his tongue and he tastes the metallic tang of his own blood sliding down his throat.

"Don't you dare, don't you dare say you're sorry to me!" Sam's anger isn't subsiding, with every sorrowful look from Dean, with every downturn of his head, he finds himself panting against the need to pummel his big brother's face until it's unrecognisable.

What did he think he was going to do, just come here and offer a lame assed apology and they'd go back to what they were?

Dean can't focus, can't draw a full breath; Sam's still got a hand buried in his shirt and is simultaneously shaking and hitting him, raining down blows where ever he can reach, "Sammy, please, stop," Dean reaches out, grabs Sam's balled fist and twists hard enough for the bones in his hand to creek, "Just _stop_!"

Sam can hear the regret in Dean's voice, and the raw emotion usually so well hidden, but he can't see passed the anger still roiling in his belly. 

He laid himself bare, offered Dean everything and he just walked all over it, left tread marks in his heart.

Much to Sam's shame he can feel the hot tracks of fierce tears streaking his cheeks and it just makes him more pissed off; at himself, at his brother, at the fact that he'd been hoping Dean would have the stones to turn up and at his own overwhelming need to be taken into strong arms and held until the hurt subsides.

Sam stops swinging, stops raging, tries to focus on anything but the resentment still twisting his insides, "De...why are you here?"

Sam's hands disappear from Dean's shirt and he stumbles forward.

Narrowly missing landing on his brother's shoulder, Dean grabs for Sam's hips as he tries to back away, "Don't, don't run."

Sam's whole body slumps, the gut wrenching anger has all but dissipated and he's left with a sense of complete and utter emptiness, "Run, ha, I didn't run...I walked away before I ended up hating you."

The pain in Sam's voice smacks Dean in the face, full force of what he's destroyed making his lungs contract and tears shine in his own eyes, "Please, Sammy, don't do that. I was...god help me...I was a fucking idiot. I was.."

Dean swallows deep, fights against his natural instincts to hide behind bullshit and forces the words out, knowing that nothing less than full honesty is going to stop his little brother walking away for good, "...I was afraid. Baby boy I was _so_ afraid. What happens when you really _see_ me? What happens when you don't like what you see? If I...If I let you in, and you walked, that would've ended me."

Sam lets Dean's words wash over him, let's them sooth the frayed edges of his battered brain.

He knows Dean's baring himself, laying himself open, the strands of his soul are so intricately woven with his brother's that Sam knows exactly when he's hearing the truth, the whole painful, shaming truth, "De...that's...that's ridiculous."

Sam still won't look at him, won't raise his face enough for Dean to see whether there's any hope left, " _How_ is that ridiculous? I'm... Sam, look at me, please, look at me..."

Sam looks up at Dean through wet glistening lashes and sees the self loathing and deep seated doubts he's never been able to shake.

Reaching out, cupping Dean's face in both hands, Sam sighs and shakes his head, "It's ridiculous because I already _see_ you. I've seen you for the last...forever De... If I didn't like what I saw I wouldn't have fallen...I wouldn't have offered myself to you."

Dean revels in the heat from Sam's large hands, thumbs running along the edges of his cheeks, and tries not to turn his head away.

The pure truth of his brother's words can't be ignored but he doesn't know how to respond, has never known how to respond, not to that level of honesty and devotion, "But Sammy, I'm broken. I'm your brother, this is...so wrong on so many levels. I shouldn't be laid in the bed next to you at night wishing it was me you were curled round when another nightmare makes you cry out. It's not right. I'm not right."

Sam slides his tear dampened lips against Dean's. Laps at the corner of his brother's mouth.

Pouring everything he knows Dean can't handle hearing into a kiss so deep it leaves him breathless, Sam digs his nails into his brother's neck and inhales the mingled scents of motor oil and leather, "My theory..."

Dean's not really sure when he turned into a panting teen, but the feel of Sam's soft pouty lips against his are making it very difficult to concentrate on his little brother's voice. Especially seen as it's so calm compared to the heat radiating across the small distance between them, "Wha..."

Sam nips along Dean's jaw, peppering the stubbly skin with gentle kisses, "My theory is, we aren't normal by any stretch of the imagination. Our life has been a multi-coloured swap shop of fucked up. This is probably the _most_ normal thing we've ever tried to do."

Dean pulls back, grips Sam's shoulders and levels his steely eyes on his brother's, "That is the most fucked up thing I've ever heard."

Sam chuckles at Dean's incredulous tone before tipping his chin and smiling softly, "Look, we don't do normal, or right, or anything that most other people would consider to be proper. We dig up bodies for a living, we kill things that most human beings don't know exist. We were raised in a life that should've had us committed or jailed years ago."

Sam starts backing Dean towards the bike, sure steady steps that his brother can't fight against, "We live on the edge of fucked up every day. Wanting you, wanting something to cling to that makes us both happy is _not_ fucked up. It's tame and apple-pie in comparison to the rest of our night time activities."

Dean feels the jut of the bike's handlebars pressing into the middle of his back and rolls his eyes at Sam's justification of wanting to fuck his brother six ways from Sunday, "Anyone ever tell you you'd make an awesome evil overlord, especially with that kind of irrefutable logic."

Sam effects a dead-pan stare and nudges Dean along the edge of the bike's tank before laying his palms flat against her cool chasse, "Why'd you think they picked me to be hell's chief bitch?"

Dean smacks Sam on the arm and huffs, "Not funny."

Sam tilts his head and grins, "Is a little..."

Dean's torn between reaming Sammy out for joking about their screwed up life and sucking on his bottom lip. The lip wins out as he leans forward, lets the frustration and worry of the last week mingle with the need to consume and pulls his brother's lip between his teeth, "Fine, but the next time you're gonna try and take over the underworld, gimme a little warning first."

Dean's teeth on his skin bring up sense memories of the night he finally managed to get his big brother to admit he wanted him and the images run straight to his half hard cock, encased in tight leather, straining against the seam of his trousers.

Reaching round Dean's leg with a foot, Sam knocks the kickstand up before pulling away from his brother.

Dean's frustrated growl is music to Sam's ears as he shifts himself sideways and flips a leg over the bike's tank.

Dean watches Sam straddle his bike and is almost knocked back by the force of _want_ hissing along his nerves. It crackles across his skin, makes him feel like he's been walking on nylon carpet in bare feet.

Sam shunts forward and nods to the back of the bike, "Hop on flower."

Dean grins and swings a leg over the seat before flicking Sam's ear, "Don't be a smart-ass."

Sam flips the ignition and throttles her hard, lets the thrum of the engine vibrate through his body while Dean settles himself against his back.

Chest pressed to Sam's shoulders, Dean wraps his arms round his brother's waist and links his fingers together. His cock is rock hard and rubbing against the zip of his jeans and the low rumble of the bike's engine isn't helping his lack of concentration but he knows they can't stay here, last thing he wants is to be found bare assed and panting by some bearded biker with a shotgun collection.

Once Sam's satisfied Dean isn't going to shift about and crash them, he pulls away, enjoying the hard line of his brother's cock pressed against his leather clad ass.

~^~

Finding the nearest side road that's far enough out of sight, Sam pulls off and brings her to a gentle stop before flipping the stand down.

As he kills the engine he hears Dean breathing hard behind him.

Peering over his shoulder he realises that Dean's having trouble swallowing and is flushed beyond simple air-burn, "De...are you...did you enjoy that?"

Dean shakes his head and wills his racing heart rate back down before smirking at Sam and grinding himself into his back, "Turns out bikes are a _thing_. Might be more to do with you being wrapped in leather between my thighs, but you know...something we can _share_."

Sam plants both feet on the ground and motions for Dean to get off the bike.

Once Dean's back on terra firmer and looking a little less like he's going to blow his load, Sam settles himself back against the sissy-bar and catches brother's eye as he lowers the zipper on his leather trousers.

The night air isn't exactly cold but it's cooler than the inside of his leathers and he sucks in a breath as his twitching, throbbing cock is freed from it's confines.

Dean's pupils dilate as he watches Sam's cock spring free from his trousers and he licks his lips. 

Sam kicks the spare stand into place before crooking a finger at Dean and smirking, "Hop on _flower_ "

The light tone in Sam's voice doesn't fool the older man, he knows how much this means to his little brother, knows it's taking all his willpower not to say something that might spook Dean, just in case he's still ready to run.

Dean tilts his head and weighs up his options, "Will she take us both?"

The breathy lilt to Dean's question isn't completely lost on Sam and he finds himself swelling with hope that this isn't going to end in total disaster.

Dean wants Sam just as much as he wants his brother and if they can get passed the moral implications and just focus on each other, then anything's possible.

"She'll hold."

Dean hears the implied meaning behind Sam's simple statement and can't hide his smile.

Sam's lazily stroking himself, tip to base, fingers pinching and squeezing along his shaft, eyes hooded and hazy as he watches Dean swallow once before hooking a leg over the middle of the tank. 

Reaching out with his free hand to steady his brother, Sam cups Dean's ass as he slides forward across the tank, settling himself as best he can.

Dean's own cock is weeping, damp patch blossoming at the front of his jeans as he laces his fingers with his brother's. They sit, facing each other, balanced precariously, joined hands stroking Sam from tip to base, pre-come leaking across both their knuckles, "Sammy..."

Sam shifts forward slightly, flattens his booted feet, digging them into the dirt, before running his nails along Dean's zipper. Popping the button and sliding his fingers inside, Sam gasps at the heat coming from his brother's twitching cock.

Dean takes the initiative and uses his unoccupied hand to lever himself up off of the tank far enough that Sam can drag his jeans down off his ass.

As Sam works Dean's trousers down his legs, mindful that he's an inch away from sliding off the bike, the younger Winchester shifts himself beneath his brother's legs. Working his knees underneath Dean's until they're slotted together like matching puzzle pieces.

Dean lets go of Sam's cock long enough to hook his hands round Sam's shoulders and shunt forward. Using the back mudguard as a foot rest, Dean leans up so that his chest is level with Sam's face and wiggles his ass.

Sam chuckles, continues to work his cock with one hand whilst gathering a palm full of pre-come in the other. Massaging it into his skin, Sam coats his fingers as best he can before slipping one along the cleft of his brother's ass.

Dean's whole body jerks as Sam's fingers come into contact with his twitching muscles. He knows it's going to be painful, if he'd used his brains, the ones currently in a puddle on the floor, he'd have brought something with him.

Seen as he didn't know if Sam was going to kiss or kill him, he figures bringing a night's supply of lube might have seemed a little presumptuous.

Sam's tentative voice drags his attention away from the delicious frisson of uncertainty coursing along his nerves.

"De...this is gonna, I mean, you sure?"

Dean rocks back against Sam's hand and lowers his gaze, letting the heat and need making his teeth itch and heart stutter shine out at his brother, "Sure as I've ever been."

Sam captures Dean's lips as he works a finger inside him, swallows the mingled sounds of pain and pleasure, savours the flavour of his brother's body opening up to him, "Steady."

Dean continues to rock his hips, not fast enough to topple the bike but quick enough that Sam gets the message and buries the finger working him all the way to his knuckle, "Jesus Christ Sam. That's...that's..."

Sam knows Dean's never done this with anyone else, even if his brother would never have told him, he'd have known. The man's an open book even when he's fully guarded and Sam doesn't want to hurt him but his own need is pumping in time with his heart, making his throat raw and raspy, "Easy, just let me."

Dean grits his teeth and digs his nails into Sam's leather jacket as he feels another finger slot in alongside the first.

It's a strange mix of invasion and fullness that has Dean panting into Sam's shoulder, biting down on leather hard enough to leave razor sharp indents in his little brother's new jacket.

Dean's body continue to move as Sam crooks his fingers upwards, searching for that sensitive bundle of nerves he knows will ease Dean's discomfort.

As soon as the tips of his fingers brush against the soft nub inside his brother, Dean's whole body shivers and slumps forward.

" _Sam_ "

Sam smirks at his overly OCD attention to detail actually paying off. Thank god for laptops and locked Internet searches, "De...I'm gonna...move up a bit."

Dean does as he's told without question, too focused on the undulating pressure rolling up and down his spine. As he shifts around enough to hover over Sam's cock, Dean realises that he's going to have to do the majority of the work and locks his knees, pressing his feet down hard against the mudguard.

Sam grips the base of his cock, stills his own slow strokes and slips his fingers from Dean's searing heat. Sliding his hand along the curve of Dean's ass until he's got a good enough hold to steady his brother in place, he guides his weeping tip to Dean's entrance.

Resting himself between Dean's cheeks, Sam wipes his hand on denim before reaching up and cupping his brother's face, "Ready?"

Dean's panting now, all out laboured breaths that seem to make him dizzier than if he had no oxygen at all. Focusing on the flash of emotion in Sam's eyes, he nods and bites his lip.

Sam pulls on Dean's hip, pushes him down until the very tip of his cock is nestled inside his brother.

Dean's eyes slam shut and a groan so low and feral escapes that Sam has to dig his nails into the soft flesh of Dean's neck to stop himself shoving upwards, "Fuck, De...so tight."

It takes Dean a full minute before he can muster enough energy to raise his head and look at Sam, the feel of his brother's thick pulsing cock sliding slowly, inch by delicious inch into him, is far beyond what he expected. The fullness, the sense of completeness from having Sammy this close, held tight by his body, is more intense than he's usually equipped to cope with.

The widening of Dean's eyes, the small 'o' of his mouth as Sam jerks his hips gently is almost enough to make the younger man lose it right there, but the need to feel Dean riding him outweighs his need for release, "De...you gotta move, please."

Dean marshals his body's reaction to the intrusion and hooks his arms round Sam's neck before letting his own weight drag him down. 

Ass nestled snug in the curve of Sam's lap, Dean rotates his hips like a belly dancer and cries out, "Sammy, god, gotta move with me."

Sam braces his thighs against Dean's legs before starting up an easy rhythm that has them both keening and twitching, scrabbling for a hand hold in the dark.

Dean's nails bite into Sam's leather covered shoulders as he pulls himself almost all the way off of his brother's cock before slamming back down. His own shaft is painfully hard and rubbing against the zip on Sam's jacket on every downward thrust and he doesn't know whether to beg, plead of cry.

As tightening muscles shift and squeeze, Sam lets go of his brother's hip, works a hand between their body's and swipes it against Dean's weeping cock.

Making sure his brother can see him, Sam sucks his fingers into his mouth. He groans at the tangy flavour of Dean on his tongue and his eyes close of their own accord, "Taste so good."

Dean thinks he's getting the hang of this as he uses the heels of his boots to shove himself upwards, tiny jerky movements accompanied by the tightening of his muscles mean's that he can feel Sam's cock jumping inside him and his brother's head falls forward onto his chest as he moans loudly.

"That's it...I wanna see...use me De..."

Sam's words are enough of an incentive for Dean to switch up this tempo and rhythm until he's using Sam's throbbing cock to fuck himself, hard, hard enough that his eyes cross on every downward stroke.

As Dean rides Sam, as the head of his brother's cock bangs up against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him, he feels the hand still palming him match speed until the bike is rocking on it's stands. 

He's vaguely aware that Sammy will kill him if they break his new toy but can't stop the momentum of his hips, they've taken on a life of they're own and he can feel the rising pressure of his release narrowing his vision to two tiny dots in the distance.

Sam's not far away from losing it completely but he desperately wants his brother with him when he topples head first into his orgasm so he fists Dean's cock harshly, pumping his hand in time with the erratic rhythm of the bike swaying back and forward until Dean is spilling himself across Sam's knuckles, smearing thick opaque liquid into soft supple leather.

Dean's muscles tighten to the point of pain around Sam's cock and he pumps up into his brother once, twice, three more times and is screaming obscenities that would make a sailor blush.

Sam loses all sense of time and space as his orgasm rings sharp and loud in his ears along with the sounds of Dean's release and he can't prevent them toppling sideways.

Landing with a thud in the dirt, Dean wraps his legs round Sam's back, hooks his ankles together and rides out the waves of his brother's stuttering hips until neither one of them has a single solid bone left in their bodies.

The night sounds finally filter back through Sam's hazy hearing and he realises that his bike is still upright and wonders how in the hell they managed that.

Dean follows Sam's line of sight and laughs, breathless and spent but still amazed that his brother's first thought is for his precious piece of machinery, "Is that the way I look when I'm worried about someone denting Baby?"

Sam nods and smirks, "Pretty much. Hey, you know that means you owe me a go in the back seat right?"

Dean's disgusted look makes Sam laugh so hard his brother has to thump him on the back, "Fair's fair De...we broke her in. It's Baby's turn next."


End file.
